Breathe, you're going to be okay
by LovelyxWriter
Summary: AU, set after Beckett's return beginning of S4. "Beckett is struggling to fight her own demons, to stop hiding behind a facade, to get better for herself and her writer. Only, she doesn't notice her writer is facing his own demons of the same shooting and to get better, together is always the way."
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Thank you for reading :).**

 **Plot of summary: AU, Castle having to deal with Beckett's shooting and the aftermath that comes along. Beckett will already have been back for about a month, more or less. Will be dealing with sensitive topics so please read the A/N before each chapter just incase.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Castle, yet.**

* * *

He doesn't know what to do. He knows he should knock, no, he needs to knock, he made it all the way over here because the tightness in his chest was going to grant him a stroke caused by stress or he was going to do something completely irrational that he was going to regret when it was over. He knows that she's not going to judge him. It's Lanie, she knows. About the nightmares, the attacks, about him waking up in cold sweats, the anxiety that's come from it. She knows, she helped him all summer. She won't be mad he's interrupting her girls night, he knows this.

He put his head against her door, the tightening of his chest causing him to become lightheaded. He wishes this would stop, that none of this ever happened, that the bullet hit him instead, that he was faster, stronger, smarter. That he never opened the case to begin with. That he never fell in love with her so that his actions never played a part in hurting her.

Oh god, he needs to knock, he's struggling to maintain a rational thought that allows him to breathe, he can't breathe.

He doesn't want Beckett to know, about the anxiety, about the nightmares, about the flashbacks that are causing him to see her blood on his hand again, none of it, any of it.

He can't do this.

Knock on the door, get Lanie. Two simple things.

He chants to himself.

 _Knock on the door and get Lanie._

 _Knock on the door and get Lanie._

 _Knock on the door and get Lanie._

 _Knock on the do –_ he cuts his thoughts off.

Knocking on the door while he takes a deep breath in, his chest creating spasms within his breathing and every breath he takes like it's creating less of a passage way to retrieve oxygen.

He knows this is Beckett's apartment but he hopes, he's praying, he's begging the universe for Lanie to open the door. He can't handle seeing her right now. He's not going to be able to maintain this trance that's keeping him from falling apart any longer.

The universe, the prayer, his hope it hates him though. Having these panic attacks he can't control that feels like earthquakes taking over his body is not enough. They want him to face the reality of his distress at this current moment.

Of course, his partner has to open the door.

"How much is— Castle?" He doesn't look her in the eyes. Instead focusing on the ceiling light he can see near the kitchen behind her head.

 _Knock on the door and get Lanie._

"I-I," he can't finish. He makes the mistake of shifting his eyes, looking her straight in the face and he feels his body tense in response. His mind filling images of her, the flashbacks taking over every part that creates any form of separation between reality and fantasy and breaking it.

He doesn't hear himself say it, but somehow she's turning around yelling for Lanie, taking a step towards him. He takes a step back in panic. She can't touch him. It's too real; she's dying in front of him.

She's dying. _She's alive_. She's bleeding. _She's standing right in front of you._ She's safe. _He's losing her._

He can see the look of confusion on her face, the hurt and he wants to tell her that it's not her but it is her. The image of her, not her, her. Her, her would never do this to him. It's the the old flashback of her that holds his thoughts captive and consumes him of ideas, reminding him "how late he is for everything," "how he's never fast enough when he needs to be," and "how he is completely unless at times."

He's starting to see red creeping in from the corner of his eyes, the memory of her blood beneath his hands, sweeping in between the cracks of his fingers even when trying to keep the pressure on her chest. It doesn't cooperate, it doesn't care that he's trying to save her life. The blood wants out. It's spilling out. It's taking him with it.

He doesn't know how he got there, finds himself crouched against the opposite wall of Beckett's door, with an arm wrapped around his ribs trying to hold himself in place so that he can not possibly fall more apart.

The images flicking across his eyes in flashes like little burst of fireworks. He's trying to focus, on the wall across from him. When his vision gets blocked completely from color, all he can see is the black sweeping in quickly.

He hears his voice getting called, "Castle, Hey Castle, Sweetie."

Like it's trying to bring him back to place.

 _Lanie_

"It's okay, you're okay, she's okay."

 _Beckett's okay._

"Pay attention to my voice okay? Everything's going to be alright."

 _Everything's going to be okay._

He feels her hand go over his heart, and he's glad for the barrier, the wild beating of his heart, making him feel as if his body may not be enough to hold it steady in place.

Over and over he hears,

"She's okay, she made it back; she's right here."

"She's okay, she made it back; she's right here."

He can hear voices, but he can't distinguish what is said as his vision starts to refocus. The cloudiness flowing from his eyes, the swaying from the dizziness is starting to come to a stop, the repulsive feeling – well it's starting to rise again because the rational part of his brain is now realizing that he just had the ending of a panic attack in front of Beckett and Lanie.

He thinks he's going to be sick, that's the only thought he can come up with to connect with the uneasiness he feels. When he tilts his head in Beckett's direction, knowing that what he's going to see on her face is going to make his heart ache. He makes eye contact with her. He can see the emotions she's trying to plant behind her face but he already knows, she's closing off on him. He's definitely going to be sick.

* * *

"So you and Castle?" Lanie's eyebrows moving in the same devious slow motion.

"Are nothing more than partners, Lanie. Don't start."

"Oh girl shut it, I wish I had a sexy writer who wanted to walk around and tell my story all the time."

"You want Nikki? You can have her," Beckett smiles in response.

"You know damn well that is a lie."

She doesn't reply, just pours the wine and sticks her tongue out. _She knows it's a lie. He's more than her partner. Her writer._ Her face turning up into a small smile.

The weekly girl's night became a ritual once Beckett was back from her recovery of the shooting this summer. Having to walk back in with her head held down in shame about not contacting her boys, best friend or Castle over the summer.

The guilt from locking them out even if it was for their own good and her own weakness. It still made her feel guilty. And though these weekly girl nights eased the guilt slowly, it also helped to have her best friend back. She was nowhere near okay but she was taking the daily steps, the steps to better herself, for her health, for her family, and for _her writer._

"I see the smirk, Beckett, care to share with the class."

"You're annoying," she rolls her eyes in response.

"Not more annoying then Castle."

"That's true, but I can tolerate his annoying, I'm not sure if I can tolerate yours for any longer."

Before Lanie can reply with a smart answer she knows is at the tip of her tongue, she sticks her tongue out while making a detour for the door, paying for their food.

As she reaches for her wallet, opening the door, "How much is-" her question cut short when she realizes it's not the delivery boy but instead _her-_

Castle?" She asks in puzzlement. Even though he shouldn't be here, she can't help be happy to see him. _It's honestly not her fault._

He's not looking at her, but she can see his eyes are focused behind her head, and his breathing is unsteady. She sees his hands are shaking, "I-I."

His eyes shift to look at her, and the full blown panic takes her by surprise, and the confusion deepens.

She takes a step towards him, intending to put her hand on his arm ask him whats wrong.

"I need Lanie, I need Lanie," he stumbles out quickly. His voice full of panic, strained and nothing like the voice of _her writer._

He stumbles back from her, looking towards the step she's taken closer him to him as some act of horror, and she feels a little hurt. What's wrong with him? He's crouching against the opposite wall of her door, holding his hand over his body, struggling to breathe.

"LANIE, LANIE COME HERE."

"Girl, why are you yelling my name?"

"COME HERE."

Her focus stuck on Castle, struggling not to take a step forward to not repeat the look of horror on his face once again. Give him his breathing space. When Lanie steps in front of her and crouches,

"Castle, Hey Castle, Sweetie."

Her hand resting goes to rest on his knee, "It's okay, she's okay; you're okay."

"Pay attention to my voice okay? Everything's going to be okay."

She rests her hand over his heart, and she sees him relax as if the pressure from her hand is keeping him from falling from his place. The action is making her a bit unsteady.

Over and over she hears her repeat to him,

"She's okay, she made it back; she's right here."

"She's okay, she made it back; she's right here."

Is she talking about her? Her stomach sinking, making her queasy. Did she cause this? How? Why did she need to be okay? Why wouldn't she be okay?

The assault of silent questions coming to a halt in her thoughts, when the reality clicks in her head. She feels the wine trying to make its way back up her taste left on her tongue turning bitter. _She hopes she's wrong._

"How long?"

Lanie doesn't waste time pretending not to understand her. She turns her head back, and she sees the sadness in her eyes, even with the seriousness in her face. "Since your shooting," she signs. Turning back to face Castle, rubbing his shoulder to sooth him down.

Beckett doesn't have time to process the set the regret settling in to the pit of her stomach, when she sees Castle's head moving up, his eyes making contact with hers. His blue eyes, coated in fear and she could see the moment the recognition of her still there clicks in his head. She sees his face pale, like he's going to be sick all over again.

She think's she's about to get sick.


	2. Chapter 2

**A|N: I hope you like this chapter. Thank you to everyone who clicked favorite, follow and reviewed.**

 **Disclaimer: The only part of Castle I own, are the electronic devices that I watch it on. One day though.**

* * *

Castle hates himself right now. He hates that he can't control this stupid anxiety, the dreams — _nightmares_ — or the nonsensical day dreams that leave him stuck and running for Lanie to help calm him down. He hates it and he hates himself for not telling himself to, "man up."

He wasn't sure how he was going to approach this but he was aware that he needed to get out of Beckett's hallway floor and climb into the nearest rock in the middle of the Mariana Trench. The faster he gets there, the better. He hasn't spoken, hasn't uttered a word but he knows he needs to talk. Especially to Lanie, to thank her, to say sorry, something. Maybe, he'll buy her a vacation package or something nice, Lanie flavored for putting up with him all summer and these past couple of months and interrupting her girls night.

He forces himself to get up, and he's thankful for Lanie taking a step back, understanding the weakness he feels of not being able to control these stupid attacks on his physical and mental state. As he rises, he looks down at the two pair of feet planted on the ground in front of him. Trying to delay the amount of time he has to pick his head up and face the two ladies in front of him.

He doesn't want the sadness in Beckett's or the understanding in Lanie's eyes. Even though he understands, he's the one that sought her out. Today, he just wants to hide. He can't deal with this right now. He doesn't want to deal with this right now.

He signs in defeat, clearing his throat, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand, picking his head up, trying to will himself the power to relax, while slightly stretching the muscles of his back, trying to ease the mortified emotions out of his veins. _This can not get any more awkward._

"I'm sorry, Lanie. I-I know you were having a girls night, I wasn't trying to barge in. I swear I –" his rambling cut off from an undoubtedly irritated Lanie.

"Castle, don't, we had an agreement. Anytime, anywhere, as long as you're safe."

"I know I just—" He knows nothing apparently because he can't force an excuse and he knows that he needs to look at Beckett or she's going to think the wrong thing, and everyone knows that miscommunication is their happy hour specialty.

He shifts his head to the side, not ready to face her or this, he forces his eyes to Beckett stammering out an, "I'm so –"

"Don't."

For a second the tone in her voice makes him unsettle but the small smile spreading across her face soothes away the moment of panic.

She takes a step back, moving her arm up to direct him inside, "Come in."

He takes a step back. He didn't come here to barge into their girl's day. He knows how much both girls need this.

"Oh no, no, I have to get going. I just – I needed – it was just for – no thank you," he cuts his rambling voice off. His credibility as a writer is seriously falling short right now.

Beckett doesn't take the excuse, "I'm sorry if you thought it was a choice or request. It was more of a do it now type of thing."

"Let's Go, Castle."

Humor. To break the tension that's thick in the air, ready to break you in half. That's what you need to get out of this

"Ladies, I appreciate the invitation, I know my ruggedly handsome good looks are just so hard to resist but – "

Lanie doesn't listen to him, Beckett just rolls her eyes, and at the same time, they grab him by the arms and drag him inside Beckett's apartment. For a moment it stuns him. He's being handle.

* * *

The door isn't two second from closing when Lanie says that she needs to finish looking through Beckett's clothing to steal something for her date. He knows it's a lie because the surprise on Beckett's face is there before she wipes it off and for a second panic surfaces and the need for him to run, is itching in his bones.

She's leaving them alone.

He knows she's going to tell him to stop awkwardly standing in her doorway and to take a seat so before she can do that. He takes a seat on the stool in her kitchen. Trying to ease the attention away from the discussion that's bound to happen.

"We don't have to talk about it right now." His head snaps up in surprise.

"We're going to talk about it, though, but we're not going to talk about it right now. Right now, you're going to join us for dinner and a movie, and you're going to relax and tomorrow, we're going to talk about it and face it." She takes a deep breath in, and he sees her hands are slightly shaking, and the regret is starting to sink in again in a rush.

And as if she's reading his thoughts, she places a glass of water in front of him and her small hand on top of his. He always admired her hands, but until this moment, he never realized how small they were compared to his or how beautiful they seem to fit against his own. "It's going to be okay, Castle."

For a split second, right before the bell of her apartment rings, he believes her. Just for a split second before her hands are off of him with a small smile thrown his way, she's off rushing to the door, and he's there trying to fight the cold that's replaced where her hands had been placed on top of his.

Nothing ever feels like it's going to be okay after these episodes.

* * *

Beckett wants to talk about it, but she knows that look on his face. The look that was silently begging her to let it go, especially after Lanie's lie about her need to borrow something for her imaginary date. Just an excuse to leave them alone and on any other day, she would have appreciated this.

Not today. Today, Beckett is clueless on how to help the closest person who happens holds the moon and the starts in her twisted world she calls a universe be okay. She's yelling at herself for missing every single sign that must have been thrown her way to signal that he wasn't okay. That something was wrong, and that he needed help.

Of course, he wouldn't be okay. He saw her get shot, and then for three months, she leaves him without a word. Not even a simple, I'm okay, or I'm breathing because granted she was the one with who recently had been shot in the chest. More than enough people sat there and witnessed it, along with her.

And out of all those people, Castle tried to take the bullet for her; he fought - got in a scrabble with her boyfriend - _ex-boyfriend_ who blamed him for her getting shot, she then dismisses him at the hospital and then ignores him for three months. Of course, he wouldn't be okay.

She wants to blame her mom's case, Montgomery, the sniper, the mayor for letting him shadow her, the bullet that did not kill her. Anything, everything but she knows it's her fault. The majority of it caused by her weakness.

Of course, this will continue to bite her in the ass until she deals with it.

* * *

So she lets him off for tonight, pretending it didn't happen, letting him take a deep breath, and when she lets him off the hook, she sees the relief spreading across as his slight pale skin starts to slow retreat to its natural pink slowly. So she reassures him, the way he would her, if it was her in this position, which she has been, more times then she can count.

When her door bell rings, saving her from jumping into his arms, wanting to reassure him in more than just a mere touch of her hands on top of his. From doing something, they both aren't ready for, she quickly puts an end to the moment, with a smile to make sure the moment ends in peace, in some small form of security for him, for her.

She won't deal with it today, she won't force him to talk today, won't force him to talk at all honestly, but she will talk to him because she has made enough mistakes with him, she's held him at arms length enough today, yesterday and every other day before.

She isn't ready, not to be in a relationship with him, the way she wants to be, doesn't want to break him, her or them. But, she can, and she will be there for him. He's her partner and has held her head above the water more times then she would care to count. She won't let him fall and drown in his demons, especially when she's the cause of them.

So for right now, Beckett gives the best care she can. Anxiety delay talks consisting of comfort food and movies.

* * *

Beckett yells at Lanie to stop pretending to look through her closet and come out to eat with them, setting up their film.

The laugh is escaping from him beyond his control, easing the parts of him that haven't been settled quite yet. Helping the awkwardness subside just a fraction.

Lanie makes her way back into the living room with not an ounce of shame at her unsubtle attempt to give them space. He's sincerely grateful to the universe for allowing him a friend in everything that makes Lanie, who she is.

With another not so subtle hint, Lanie is placing herself on the edge of the couch, calling Castle over to sit next to her in the middle. He knows what she's doing, trying to place, Beckett next to him, knowing that it helps him the closer she is, and he's grateful that she knows that, grateful for her, truly.

So he makes his way over, shrugging his coat off and placing the coat on top of the kitchen chair to make himself comfortable. He denies the food they offer, his stomach not ready to handle anything yet and when Beckett settles next to him, food is the last thing even close to his thoughts.

He has not one idea what the movie is about except that it's a chick flick and the amount of teasing that he wants to do, is only stopped out of respect for them helping him through his panic attack. When it's done, they're never going to hear the end of it because he can not believe, he's sitting between Kate Beckett and Lanie Parish, watching a chick flick with the both of them. He can not wait to tell the boys, but those thoughts are quickly taken back with a scowl on his face at the tremendous amount of teasing the boys will do to him.

In second thought, the boys would have a field day; maybe he'll just keep his mouth shut.

He also can't focus because the girls have long stopped eating, and Kate Beckett has someone slowly made herself closer to him every couple of minutes, and he can't seem to place how she's doing it, but he doesn't want her to stop. So when she casually rests her head on his shoulder from the arm that's thrown over the couch behind her head, he has to force himself not to jump out of excitement or shock.

Instead he casually places his arm down, forcing her just a bit closer, pushing the boundaries, the limits and when she doesn't push away. He takes it as another win. She snuggles in a little closer. He has to force himself not to look at her, knows that it will break the spell and she'll retreat back into her side of the couch if he does. His hand landing in the middle of her arm, he casually strokes and it takes him a minute to realize that he's writing, "you're okay" over and over against her skin, and every time he feels her take a breath, the words are edging into the open spaces of his subconscious. He hopes the next time he has a nightmare or a panic attack, he remembers this moment.

* * *

Beckett knows she should stop but god she didn't even know how much she needed this. She just hopes Lanie continues to pretend not to notice because she really doesn't want this to get awkward. Only Lanie being Lanie, says that she's ready to call it a night, an early morning. Again, another not subtle way of trying to leave the both of them alone. When Beckett goes to pause the movie, and let Lanie out. She's told to sit back down, she can let herself out she's a big girl. Beckett rolls her eyes in reply, Lanie is sometimes the worst.

When they hear the door click, she excepts the awkwardness of being alone and instead is welcome with a calm and peaceful feeling.

It hasn't slipped past her mind, of the cliché high school moment both Castle and she are pulling. The gravity of her solar plexus is coming to a complete halt. And all she can do is throw her head back into his shoulder, to stop herself from throwing herself completely at him.

Oh, she knows she's in love with him. She wishes she was ready, that everything wasn't so complicated, that she didn't – _no don't go there, you'll ruin the moment_ , push away. _That's not what he needs; that's not what you want._

She attempts to force herself out of her thoughts and back into the horrible cliché chick flick that is a guilty pleasure of her and Lanie's, when she realizes that,

 _Holy shit._

 _She's watching a chick flick with Castle, Lanie is – was – too but CASTLE._

 _Oh god, he's never going to let her live this down._

No point in panicking now, he's already been here more the half way through. She's going to have deal with the teasing, not that it's bothering her as much as it should. She'll just threaten him with bodily harm, this causes a slight smirk to form on her lips.

Luckily, for more then half the movie, Castle, has taken to writing on her arm and after a few attempts of the same pattern, she has figured it out. "You're okay" over and over has been etched into her arm, no ink but still permanently placed against her skin, and it's soothing.

And if she were a puzzle, he was placing every piece back into place with every letter he was writing against her skin, letting himself and her know that she was alright. For a second, he stops, and she slightly panics, not ready for him to let go, to stop the words that he is engraving into her skin but he stretches his hand and continues the same word, and she settles back swiftly.

He isn't going anywhere. That is all she needed to know, for right now, until the end of the movie. Castle will continue to write she's okay, with the question of "but are you?" ready to escape her lips, wanting to know, the way he does to her.

She won't truly feel okay until she knows.

All that Beckett knows is that from here on out, she has to peel the brick of her wall just a bit faster.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who read, followed, reviewed, favorited. You are all great.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't have to do this every chapter do I? I don't need the constant reminder, honestly.**

* * *

They don't get to talk at least not for the next four days. The next case has everyone irritated, beyond frustrated, and the boys are lashing out at each other childishly, she's snipping out snide comments every time the evidence isn't coming through fast enough. The imbecile killer on the loose and the dead teenager on their hands with distraught parents, it's driving them mad.

The age is too much for Castle, bothers him. She can tell, he's too playful (even for him). He won't stop twitching or touching things on her desk, has been texting Alexis every five minutes, driving her mad enough that Alexis sends her a text asking if everyone was okay.

So she knows that something was wrong and that he's struggling. So regardless of the attitude that everyone is having, and of the irritation and utter annoyance everyone is awarding her, she's trying her hardest not to take it out on him.

Instead, she gets up to bring him coffee when she sees his cup is running low; pays for lunch and she brings him into a conversation about the best female superhero around there is. The difference causing a debate that lessens the worry lines that were starting to mold into his face.

She can tell that it helps slightly if his smile is any indication to what she knows. His hands have stopped in their quest to move.

But none of it matters for long, though, because the suspect that they finally track down ends up holding a gun towards Beckett to avoid arrest. And even though nothing happens, and Ryan shoots the gun out of his hand. Castle isn't okay. He gives his statement like every other protocol, but she can see it now. He's quiet the entire way to the station, stealing glances that she pretends not to notice. When they finally make it to her desk, Castle is no more than a couple of feet away from her at the station.

And when she has to debrief with Gates alone, she can see his leg slightly start to shake. She tries her best to reassure him, little touches of the shoulder, a small smile, something to help ease his nerves.

When she returns from Gates office, she panics for a split second before Espo interrupts her thoughts.

"He said he was going to change in the locker room to work out in the gym," Espo laughs.

For a moment, she thinks about wiping the smirk off his face because nothing of the way that Castle is feeling is a joke. Only she knows that Espo is just being his usual self, with their regular banter, and that she can never get into it like that with Espo. He was her brother, and she was just worried about her — _writer._

Beckett doesn't pretend she's not going to look for Castle, so when she makes her way to the training room and walks inside to find him, she's surprised he isn't there.

She didn't expect to find him lifting weights or doing exercises, but she doesn't expect him to lie to Espo about where he was going.

It isn't until she hears the faintest intake of breath coming from the shower that she understands what's going on, and it makes a knot in her chest.

* * *

Castle can't breathe again and this time, Lanie is at work. He's never bothered Lanie at work; he tries so hard not to worry Lanie at work but he doesn't think he can do it, this time, extremely confident he can't do this anymore.

He makes his way to the gym showers in the station, turns the heat of the water on the highest amount it will let him take it — the cold air is trapping in his lungs — throwing his jacket to the side — his lungs will not contract correctly — clumsy fingers opening his button-up shirt — his head is swirling with every tick of a clock he swears he hears nearby — his hand placed against his chest, his only movement to keep himself rooted — his vision is starting to darken.

He can't help the sob that escapes because he isn't convinced — no he's highly aware that he can't do this anymore. The lungs in his body refuse to accept the oxygen that is trying to welcome in. He can't connect whether the broken sobs are coming because he's losing his shit over Beckett again or from the lack of oxygen he's currently experiencing. His heart is slamming against his rib cage asking for an escape route off this unwelcome monsoon.

He can't breathe.

Beckett. _She's dying._

Lanie. _She will tell you she's not._

Beckett. _The sniper got her._

Lanie. _You did what you could to save her._

Beckett. _The blood, it's too much blood, it's all over his hands, swept in between the open spaces of his fingers, it's gushing out, while she's fading out._

Lanie. _She's not dead_

He needs to find _Lanie._

He doesn't know how but he hears it faintly, like an echo whispered against his skull, in between the commotion he has the pleasure of calling his processing thoughts.

Almost in a whisper, but he swears he hears it, "Hey, Castle."

* * *

She makes her way to the door, slowly trying to gain her composure, opening the door, stepping into the showers, the heat making quick work of having her clothes stick to her skin, and she hears it again.

She has been there; she is still there.

She hates herself, for not being there for him. For putting him through this. For not giving up the case, when he asked her too. When he warned her, she hates it.

She takes her steps slowly, turning the corner, when she sees him his jacket first, thrown on the floor. She slight lifts her head, it's when she finally sees him, his button-up shirt opened, with a hand to his heart, trying to control his breathing, but not being able to control the sob that escapes him. It's taking her broken heart with it.

She steps around the water, turns it off to calm the humidity in the room, the rising pressure of his attack.

"Hey, Castle," she whispers, an attempt to release the pressure and tension radiating off of him.

His head snaps up towards her, eyes wild, breathing sporadically.

She takes a step towards him slowly,

"Hey, writer boy," she smiles and tries again, wants to show him, that he's alive, she's alive, it's okay.

"You're okay; you know that?" — A step closer — "Just take a deep breath in" — Another step — "You're going to get through this " — two steps from her goal — "Just focus on me okay?" — one step —

She finally reaches him, slowly, puts her hand on his upper shoulder, wraps her fingers in a soft grip with gentle pressure as a sign support.

"It's okay," she whispers, but its echo's against the tiles of the shower, projecting her voice back at her, sounding louder than she intended.

"Lanie."

"No, it's Beckett, Lanie is too far for me to go get; I'm going to help you get through this okay?" No answer to her question, she doesn't expect one.

"Look at me."

She grabs his face between her hands, his stubble pressing against her palms, looking into his deep-seated blue eyes, a slight reminder of the way she was going to leave this world. She swallows down her anxiety that wants to create its personal entrance.

"You're okay," she whispers.

"You're okay," he repeats.

"I'm okay."

"You're okay."

"I'm right here, Castle." She takes a hold of his hand to place against her chest, lets him feel the rapid heartbeat through her shirt. Too many steps out of her comfort zone, but enough steps as long as it's for him.

His eyes focus on her face, and she has to fight the need to shift her eyes away from the intensity. He needs this more then she needs her space. She can — _will_ do this for him.

* * *

He's done it again, falling victim to another one of those panic attacks that want to take over his body and leave him weak. He hates it, hates himself, hates the stupid memories, and hates the sniper.

So he focuses because he needs it to stop, focuses on the hazel-green eyes that have become his favorite color so effortlessly, watches the gold linger in the corner, not outshining the rest of the color, a perfect contrast for his imperfectly perfect detective.

His large hand placed over her chest, centered against her heartbeat. Every deep breath in matches the fast pace of her heart, but he focuses, slowly regulating his breathing, chanting to himself that she's okay.

She doesn't rush him, doesn't pressure him to come around faster, just silently strokes the hair on the nape of his neck, keeps their hands pressed together, gently speaks words of comfort.

He's coming down, paying attention to the details to signal that she's okay and not dying in his arms. The wave no longer swallowing him but instead under his knees, small waves that are releasing the tension.

When he finally feels it, that chill pressure that starts from his chest and passes along through his body, letting him know that he's finally coming down from his attack.

 _He's okay_. Well as okay as he'll ever be right now.

* * *

She sees when he's finally coming down, as his eyes lose the glaze overwhelmed panic look, _her writer_ slowly making an appearance back.

His eyes wander to the side before they reconnect with hers, she feels him take a deep breath, and she takes the opportunity to gain her oxygen intake. He doesn't speak, still not her _writer, yet_. It's her who breaks the silence as his eyes meet hers again.

"About time we have that talk huh?" she murmurs softly.

The response to quick, so natural, so — _so Castle_. "A little too late for the birds and bees Beckett, I assure you, I know what I am doing by now."

His use of humor to make sure any awkwardness does not take presence in this conversation causes little flips throughout her heart, that slowly find a trail along her chest, has decided to seek refuge in the open cracks of her ribs. Still, it works, as it always does, forces her to choke out a small laugh. A natural reaction that has her smacking him lightly in the back of the head with an accompanying eye roll because even with this hidden part of Castle, he is still insufferable and they wouldn't be them without the innuendo.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** • **Thank you to everyone who has been keeping up with this story. I honestly appreciate every single review and more.**

• **To the reviewer who pointed out my grammar errors, I found myself a beta and hope the story improves overall.**

• **I'm also sorry this is so late, with so much pressure from my summer college courses, not feeling well, and life, I sort of hit my first writer's block. It drove me insane the past three weeks.**

 **Disclaimer: Still don't own it, I should, though, we would still be watching new episodes.**

* * *

The paperwork, the case, the boys, everything, can wait tomorrow. Today, her partner needs her and fours day is already too long without knowing the entire story.

The ride to her apartment is in silence but comforting, nerves in the air, but reassuring, _they're going to get through this_. She makes quick work of getting wine when they get to her apartment. Another quick work of settling them on the couch, even faster work of avoiding the topic with jokes between the both of them.

And that's all it took, a second, the sadness of the situation hitting them abruptly. To see what her shooting has done to him. The way his head is lowered down in defeat, his shoulders hunched, the energy too intense – different – not – not her Castle.

A reminder of how she didn't see _her writer, her partner, hurting all of these months._

She wishes that she could take it all away. Help capture the invisible enemy that's physically hurting him, her – them by the neck, lock it away and throw away the key. Only this is not a fairytale, and she can't capture his invisible enemy for him but she can – will help him slay it, together.

She watches him as he sets his glass of wine on the table, and chooses to rest his elbows on his knees, lower his face down to his hands. She finds herself wishing he never followed her, even though just the thought of that happening makes her sick.

She can't help but blame herself or to think if maybe he never followed her, if she would have stopped looking into her mother's case, if her mother made it home for dinner, if –

"It's not your fault." The rasp of his voice thick with the anxiety she can tell he's trying to contain.

She doesn't reply, well as a result of, she doesn't agree. _It is her fault._

"It's not your fault."

She lifts her legs to bring them close to her chest, wraps her arms around them, choosing to rest her cheek against her knees and look at him. Protecting herself – him, them, her.

"When they did they start?"

He looks her, his eyes clouded over, she can see the internal struggle with trying to tell her the truth until he sighs in defeat, the sadness creeping in before it takes over completely.

"I'm not sure," his voice cracks slightly. She watched as he takes a moment to cover his face with hands, as if he's trying to hold himself together, and her hands itch. She wishes that her fingers could etch the open space of his and create the barrier he wants to hide behind but only if she's there so that she can help knock it down when he's ready. Regardless, of how hypocritical it sounds.

"I couldn't sleep for days; it just kept replaying in my head you know?" Swirling his finger against his temple repeatedly.

"The panic attacks, they just, they just started I'm not sure when exactly, the very first one must have been the same day of your–" and the sentence runs out.

 _The same day as her shooting._ She should reassure him, but she's stuck in his place, and he needs to do this for himself, so she can help him and help herself.

"The same day, I – I didn't know it was one, Lanie found me and she helped calm me down, even while she was having one herself," he strains in a laugh.

"I didn't know at the time until it happened again, again, and again. That's when Lanie told me what it was, I'm a grown man, I should know this by now Beckett, you would think? Only it didn't hit me until she was telling me I needed help."

"I could deal with it, but then you didn't call, and it just got worse-"

He stops for a second, and the barrier she's created with her arms does nothing to eliminate the guilt choosing to wrap itself around the already flimsy wall placed around her heart. Still, she urges him to continue, carefully unwraps herself of her carefully placed cocoon of a shell to reach over and wrap her hand around his forearm.

He lifts his eyes to meets hers and she hopes her eyes are enough to communicate what her words can't seem to form against her lips. He nods, whether in an understanding of her words or agreement she doesn't know, he continues regardless.

"They just kept happening and happening. When you came back, it was okay until the risk of a gun being pointed at you was enough to drive me crazy.

I did, and I'm doing everything I can to stop them. I see a therapist, I workout, I write, it's the nightmares. They come and go, but when they come, I can't stop them, and I end up," he laughs, a half sob in the wake "I end up in your front door, ruining your girl's night, and halfway to crying over wine, allowing me the chance to realize that we're doing this wrong, the ice cream is missing, Beckett."

That's when she realized she's crying because the laugh that escapes her is more connected to the sob he just hashed out moments ago and he's lifting his hand up to her face to wipe away the tears, and even that little movement is enough to fill the small gaps of her broken interior. It's what he's always done, help filled the broken gap between her wall, filling her with everything that is him.

She reaches her hand to cover his over her cheek. Assures him she'll cover them when they're finished. "We'll go the deli after, pick up some ice cream when we're done. Whatever flavor you want, my treat." He nods his eyes swimming with tears but the love still shining in them, directed at her, always her. The blue a reminder of the wave that's overcoming in her own eyes.

"Castle, I'm so-"

He cuts her off with a sharp nod of his head and a soft grip of his hand against her cheek. "Don't."

"No, listen to me okay," she lowers his hand against her check, allowing them to be wrapped around the both of hers, tightening her hold.

"I'm sorry, for closing you out, for leaving you without a word for months. I'm sorry for not noticing that you needed my help, that you needed me to be your partner," she half chokes on the word because, in reality, she knows she should be more, for him, her, them. She wants to be more. Partners at work, Partners in life.

"Even if I wanted to help, I could barely lift an arm without losing my breath, but once I was able to, once I was able to steady myself, I should've reached out. All of those mistakes are mine to own because you would do anything for me and I should have never allowed, even for a second for you to think I wouldn't do the same, and for that I'm sorry."

"Kate –"

She holds up a finger; she's not finished, and she owes him this, owes them this.

"I'm seeing a therapist too."

She swallows down the urge to run and stop this conversation from continuing any further. "My therapist, the one that cleared me to go back to work, I still go to him. They, they – um – they diagnosed me with PTSD," she rushes out.

He looks at her, the confusion and understanding of her words hitting him straight but she wasn't ready for the sadness that becomes more visible among his features. He always knew when she was in pain, and he was aware every time she denied it. Still, the surprise is written across his face of the openness he didn't have to pry out of her.

And like an abrupt halt that happens when trying to prevent a collision, the thought slams against her chest, momentarily knocks the wind out of her system, she needs to tell him that she remembers her shooting.

She squeezes his hand that is wrapped her own, the tears threatening to spill _once again_.

"Kate, hey, it's okay you, – he wipes away the single tear that manages to escape – you don't have to talk about your PTSD."

And she wishes that, that was what they could be talking about because she's certain she can't handle what needs to be said, but if she doesn't say it today, she's not sure she'll ever say it.

And everything inside is screaming at her to stop lying to him because he doesn't deserve it, and she can't say what he wants to hear but she's almost there. She just needs a little more time. She just needs him to wait a bit longer, wishes him to understand that it's not because of him it's because of her, that –

She cuts off her own thoughts, "I lied."

He raises his eyebrows at her in response, unaware that she's about to break the small progress that they just built, but it wouldn't be genuine progress if she keeps lying right?

"About?" He questions, a small amount of amusement in his voice, marked with the confusion of her abrupt confession.

She swallows down the vomit that wants to escape, the bitter acid taste making her nauseous. "About my shooting," she whispers.

This time, his face is nothing short of hurt, confusion and curiosity.

"I remember."

The moment of silence is enough to hear her rapid heartbeat ringing loudly against her. If she can hear it so clearly, she's positive so can he. Forces herself to focus her eyes on him, preparing for a fight, an outburst, ready to make him see her side.

Only he abruptly stands up, walks to the other side of her living room, his eyes opened in shock. His words don't match what he's trying to say; she can tell from the clear frustration spoken between the few words he does get out, "You — months — you –." He covers his face again, his eyes a mixture of everything she wanted to avoid.

* * *

She lied for months and a part of him knew, the little things that didn't add up, the way she was growing with him, the touches, the flirting, the, well the everything.

She lied, of course, she lied because – well he has no idea why she lied.

All he knows is that he's standing across her living room pouring his heart out to the girl he – he what – he loves, and he can't assemble the necessary processing required from his cerebrum to form a complete sentence, the anger rising from the depth of his own inner turmoil.

No, Richard Castle, is looking at the girl _he loves_ and the emotions linked very close to insanity is not because she was shot and shut him out for months, neither a result to him knowing that she's been lying this entire time, or due to any of the signals he has picked up over these past couple of months, and whether they actually meant anything anymore. No, it all falls on him, Richard Castle who has been lying to her about his own secret, who's questioning whether or not they can ever communicate with each other instead of playing this ring around the rosie game.

She told her secret, and now, he has to tell his too.

His sudden movement has her standing, quickly trying to plead her case, "Castle, let me explain okay? Before you get upset, and we can't talk because we'll start yell –"

He swallows because he knows after this, he definitely won't be able to hold the wine or the lunch from earlier down.

"I've been keeping a secret, too."

That stops her from trying to explain her side; she raises her eyebrow at him in question. "About what?" The confusion is ringing loudly against the walls of her living room, echoing against his ears and he swears he can her her walls rising back up, bracing for impact.

He grips his neck tightly, shakes his hand slightly, trying to shake the grip of his spine to get together, muster the courage.

"Your mom's case."

And before he can plead his defense, he watches the blood drain from her face.


End file.
